


Necessary Evils

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content, demon!Hawke, killing danarius is always a joy, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7881778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A demon tempts Fenris. All he need do is give her his soul and she'll grant his every desire...</p>
<p>“What will you do?” she asks, “When you kill him?” Her head is on his pillow, wings draped around her like a blanket. She regards him curiously, a hand still playing at threads, her bare feet winding into his bedsheets. Fenris sighs, placing the pen down beside the newest addition to his book collection. He leans back in the chair, arms crossed.<br/>“I will live,” he says simply.<br/>“Give me your soul and I can give you every inch of the life you want,” she says.<br/>“No,” he replies, shaking his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Evils

**Author's Note:**

> And so, how long must I await you  
> And the sun that won't come out?  
> Oh lady, I, I'll forget you  
> I alone know cold nights  
> Oh lady, I, I'll regret you  
> In time, [oh in time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RtHux0p8Q0I)

She is a mass of dark wings and darker shadows, appearing on his bed like a weightless ghost, her hands on folded knees and a grin on her face. Raven-hair haloes out on his pillow, blue eyes icy and bright surrounded by dark clouds. She is the coming storm, the thunder in the distance, the electricity that sparks in the air. She waves a leg at him as he scratches at the parchment, giving her only a cursory glance. “Don’t be rude! Where’s my proper greeting?” She asks, faking a pout as she turns to sit on the edge of his bed, feathers falling about her as she moves.

“You are making a mess,” he replies gruffly, gesturing his pen at the feathers around her. She only laughs and spreads her wings, six of them in all their darkened glory, shaking them so more feathers fall. She goes to him, her feet never touching the floor, her arms draped over his shoulders and her mouth beside his ear. She licks him from lobe to tip, giving his pointed ear extra attention. He reddens at the feel of her tongue while she only chuckles.

“I’ve brought you another,” she says, reaching into her robes and drawing forth a musty book. The edge of the pages are burnt and black, the cover oozing with dark slime. She drops it onto his papers, destroying his written work, and opens the cover with a sharpened fingernail. Each finger has a ring, sharp and golden, ornate jewelry with imagery of hawks and wolves. Her fingers are as dark as her wings, delicate and dangerous, and she taps at the index. “You see? Just like you wanted.” He scans the page quickly, his eyes finding the words that mean the most to him – silence, magic, tranquility.

“Thank you Asmodai,” he says while she laughs again. She stands away from him, wandering about his meagre room, her fingers touching the books on his shelf.

“That’s not my name!”

“It is as good as any other.”

“Give me your soul and I’ll tell you what it really is,” she says, looking over her shoulder at him with a smirk. This old game again. “Fenris,” she whines, her hands slapping down on his desk, “give me your soul.” He leans back in the chair and smiles up at her, shaking his head. “I can give you what you want. What you _need_. I can give you Danarius’s head on a platter.”

When he ran, he ran with equal parts rage and fear in his heart. He’d run from city to city, never stopping to rest, always looking behind him. On those quiet moments, when he hid, he would do so with his head in his hands, knowing _he_ was coming for him, knowing he’d have to kill him first. She had found him like that, brought forth by his hate and his anger, his desire for vengeance. She promised him it all. All for one simple thing. Something he did not give. Something he refused her even now. She’d not left his side since. A nuisance, an annoyance, she pestered and bothered, pouted and raged, but also kept her potential investment safe and watched over him while he slept like a jealous lover.

Fenris had grown used to her scattered appearances, and was starting to become accustomed to the gifts she’d bring. At first it was nothing but food, or coin when he needed it. She’d armed him with guns, ammunition, maps of the city. Now she brought him book after book. Whimsical subjects usually, a flight of fancy to distract him, but every so often, like this time, she’d deliver him the means to defeat the mage who hunted him. He rubs at his chin, fingertips sliding over the lines of lyrium embedded in his skin.

She rolls into his bed once again, lying on her side, watching him as he reads. He casts the occasional glance at her as she picks at the stray threads on his bedsheets, on her stomach, feet in the air. She never did tell him what to call her. He’d started simply – with Lucifer, of course, which caused her quite a bit of amusement. “God, no, absolutely not,” she’d said, slapping her knee and holding her sides which stitched with laughter. Beelzebub was next – “closer, but not quite,” she told him, the juice of the pomegranate she’d bit into running down her chin. Sathanus, Abaddon, Mammon, Belphegor, and finally he’d reached Asmodeus. He’d thought Asmodai fit her better.

“What will you do?” she asks, “When you kill him?” Her head is on his pillow, wings draped around her like a blanket. She regards him curiously, a hand still playing at threads, her bare feet winding into his bedsheets. Fenris sighs, placing the pen down beside the newest addition to his book collection. He leans back in the chair, arms crossed.

“I will live,” he says simply.

“Give me your soul and I can give you every inch of the life you want,” she says.

“No,” he replies, shaking his head. She moves quicker than his eyes can follow, appearing before him in an instant. She has one hand on his thigh, the other on his neck, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. Her lips are red and vibrant, blooded and full, her robes dark and tight, lined with gold embroidery. A queen’s mourning robes, on a demon that was shaped with shadow and stolen light. Her horns curled and pointed upwards, tipped with gold, the crown for the queen.

“I can give you all that you need,” she murmurs, the hand on his thigh moving upward, “all that you desire.” He stands, his hands crushing onto her shoulders, pushing her away.

“No, thank you, Asmodai,” he tells her, watching as she breaks into a smile. She leans forward, sealing his denial with a kiss. Her laughter lingers when she disappears, like smoke in the wind, the only sign of her being there was the book on his desk and the feathers scattered about his room. He collected them one by one, putting them all in the chest he keeps. He moves back to his desk, opening the leather journal.

_The demon has visited me again. How many times does this make? Three years and yet she continues to come despite my protestations. Other demons I have read about would have given up by now. Why? Why with me?_ He writes quickly and with practiced ease, before closing the journal and tying it closed. He shoves it into one of the corners of his desk drawers, before shedding vest and shoes, crawling into his bed. It smells of her – roses, strawberries and all the red things in the world. He sleeps deeply, the world fading away. He dreams of nothing.

He buys breakfast in the morning, when there’s still dew upon the windows and fog that carries upon the ground. He eats it at his desk, reading through the pages of the book she brought him. He writes down all the necessary things, or just things of note. The ooze has faded overnight, the only evidence of whatever dark place she found it. He spends the rest of the day doing odd favors, earning coin and distracting himself.

Fenris lies in the tub, his hands linked over his chest, eyes closed and reveling in the silence. He opens his eyes when the light in the room changes, a dark shadow appearing overhead. It descends, formless and shifting, until she appears, her hands and knees on the edges of the tub. “Fenris,” she says, feathers falling about him like dark snow, “give me your soul.” He smiles and shakes his head. She sighs, and all at once, falls into the tub with him. Water pours over the edges at her intrusion, her head on his chest and her hands wrapping around his waist. Her wings spread out and over, her bare feet in the air.

The water heats with her, while it had been almost cool it was now close to scalding, renewed by her presence. “Read to me,” she says, her fingertips circling at the small of his back. He laughs, his hands on the side of the tub, resting over her wings.

“How can I? We are here, and the books are over there?” He says as he points. She makes a long exaggerated sigh, the pout of a child, and with the barest movement of her head, a book flies over to them, floating over her back so that Fenris may reach out and take it. His elbows dip in the water as he opens it. She’s selected a fantasy, a romance, a light thing full of dashing knights and daring adventures. He does as she asks and begins to read. She is quiet, her only movement being her breathing against him, her hands traveling about his back.

“What would you do?” she asks after a while, interrupting him, “with this free life of yours?”

“Hmm, I would sleep in. Until whenever I liked.” She scoffs, a hand moving out of the water to rest on his chest, her head turning as she looks up at him.

“That’s all?”

“That is the first thing I could think of,” he says with a smile. She grumbles, her eyes leaving his, her head coming to rest once again.

“What else?”

“I would travel, I think. I would like to see the world. The ocean. An endless stretch of water, as far as the eye could see. All the great things this world has to offer,” he tells her. She plants her hands at the bottom of the tub, rising up to look him in the face, her forehead pressing against his.

“I can give you that. I can show you the ocean right now.”

“I will not give you my soul.” She huffs, pouting again, leaning forward and kissing him before she disappears. Water shifts with her sudden absence, the tub now almost empty, and the water is cold once again. He picks the feathers from his skin and dries himself, placing the book back on the shelf. He marks their page with a folded edge.

Fenris wakes when it’s still dark, a weight over his hips and a hand clamped over his mouth. “Stay quiet,” Asmodai says as she straddles him, blue eyes glowing in the night. “They’re coming. They’re on the stairs.” She lets go of him slowly, rising and extending a hand to him. He ignores it as he stands, going to his desk and the bag that hangs from his chair, shoving all the things he thinks he needs into it. Journal included. “There’s no time,” she hisses, passing his shoes to him. “If you give me your soul, I could kill them for you.” He shakes his head and she makes a noise of disgust.

Fenris fights with the lock on his window, before shoving it upwards. He clambers out, feet finding footholds in the brick. He climbs down slowly, while she watches from the window. From the street, he can see her close it. He blinks, and she’s beside him. She points down one street, saying, “Go here. They’re watching everywhere else.” He nods, and does as she says even as she disappears. He runs in the dark, his bag on his back, avoiding the flickering street lights. He does not stop until the sun begins to appear over the horizon.

He pays coin at some run down inn, for a dirty room. He does not lie in the bed. He sits by the window and watches, his arms crossed. Blinking becomes harder, a painful thing, but opening his eyes becomes even worse. His chin dips to his chest, arms still crossed, white hair falling freely over his forehead. He does not feel her brush it away, tucking it behind his pointed ear. He wakes to her sitting on that bed he did not take, his journal in her hands.

She looks up when he wakes, turning a page casually. “So much time spent thinking of me. I’m flattered,” she smirks while he shoots up from the chair. He snatches the journal from her hands while she laughs. “I promise I won’t tell any of your secrets.” He shoves the book back into his bag, adjusting his shirt, reaching for his vest. She stands in front of him, her hands replacing his, humming as she does up the buttons for him.

“You should be more careful,” she warns, “they almost had you this time.”

“Your concern is touching,” he tells her flatly.

“To collect your soul, I need you _alive_ ,” she says, tapping a finger under his chin, tilting his face to look at her. It unnerved him at first, that lack of white in her eyes, but now it was as normal to him as any other. “If you just gave it to me, I could rid you of all those who hunt you. Never again would you be running in the night.”

“No, thank you, Asmodai,” he tells her, his hand over hers, removing it from his face. She shakes her head with a noise of disgust, rolling her eyes, hands on her hips as she paces away from him. Her wings lower with irritation, her back stiff as she stares at a cobweb in the corner of the room.

“That’s not my name,” she says sharply.

“You have not given me any other.” She turns to him, more feathers falling with the speed of her urgency, a dark snowfall about her.

“No human, elf, dwarf or even Qunari is this stubborn!” she says, stamping her foot. “Danarius could be long dead, a rotting pile of flesh, if only you’d agree!” He crosses one arm across his chest, his other elbow leaning against it as he covers his mouth with his hand. It hides the smile that appears there.

“My soul is my own. I will not free myself from Danarius only to be chained by a demon,” he tells her. That earns him more pouting, more stamping of her feet like a child throwing a fit. When she turns to him again, her hands are on his cheeks, and she presses a kiss to his lips. It’s warm, like fire, a deep burning that sears down his spine. It imbues him with a warmth down in his chest, a calm he had never known before. When he opens his eyes again, she is gone. He does not see her for weeks.

He returns to his home, his small room, and finds it tossed and turned over. The bedsheets are ripped, the feathers from his pillow and her feathers from the chest strewn about. Pages of parchment litter the floor, books torn and ripped to pieces. He knows they are watching. He cannot stay long. He collects what he can, finding the scraps of what he needs.

Recipes to still magic – to rip it from Danarius’s grasp. To give Fenris equal footing in the fight ahead. He leaves with the pages stuffed in the pockets of his coat, his head tipped downward, shoes tapping against the cobblestone, footsteps quick as he hurries away into the fog. No one pays him any mind, too busy going about their own business. A bird sits upon a rooftop and watches him go.

In that rented room, he gathers ingredients with what coin he has. By candlelight, he crafts potion after potion, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sweat upon his brow. He restocks his gunpowder, his ammunition, and he cleans his gun thoroughly. He pours over the maps of the city, all the routes he can take to Danarius. All the routes he can take to escape. The night before he goes to confront his former master he dreams of her. He dreams of her alone, atop a grassy hill, all the feathers in her wings floating away until only bone remains.

Fenris tucks his gun into the holster on his belt, and he’s wearing his best vest and tie and the only pair of pants he has without any holes. He puts on his coat, and quickly scrawls a message into his journal. _Asmodai, I go to my freedom. You should find yours_. A bird darkly sits on his windowsill and watches as he writes, watches as he goes. She shifts her form, a dark fog slipping under his window, and she stands with his journal in her hands. She grits her teeth, puncturing the pages with her fingernails, and disappears with it.

The guards let him enter without a second word, straight to where Danarius sits at his desk. He leans back in his chair, that knowing smirk on his face, his legs crossed and his hands folded as Fenris approaches. “Ah, my little wolf returns. How predictable,” Danarius says. Fenris fingers the vial in his pocket, gripping it tightly in his hand, ready to throw it.

“You are no longer my master,” he says, drawing it from his pocket, his arm outstretched. Danarius laughs, and activates the markings he etched on Fenris’s skin. He collapses with an anguished cry, the vial falling harmlessly to the floor. Danarius laughs softly, rising from his chair, walking around the desk, picking up the vial from the floor. He undoes the stopper, sniffing at it, dipping in a finger and tasting it with his tongue.

“My Fenris has become so clever,” he says, “where did you learn to make this?” He clenches his fist and Fenris grits his teeth as his markings glow brighter, writhing in pain. Danarius has his fingers at Fenris’s chin, turning his face upwards to look at him. His skin sears with pain, a fire that spreads from each marking, burning across him and he knows he has lost. He stays on his knees, his back bowed, hands limp at his sides. “Where did you learn this?” Fenris almost wants to laugh.

He turns his gaze upwards, facing his master, and tells him, “A demon brought me a book.” Danarius strikes him hard across the face with a hiss of displeasure, the vial breaking in his grip.

“Insolent whelp. Remember you are still chained, still mine. Accept your fate.” His back arches as his markings flare once again, his jaw clenched and hands folding into fists as Danarius toys with him. He gasps, heaving with struggling breath, fists against the floor when Danarius releases him. Sweat coats his brow, cold down his spine, his pulse beating wildly through his veins. Danarius snaps his fingers, and guards enter immediately.

“Take him to his room,” he commands them. Fenris feels hands at his arms, hoisting him, lifting him away. With the last of his strength, he reaches for the gun on his belt. He takes it in shaking fingers, vision blurring as he struggles to find the right shape to shoot. He hears indistinct yelling, the guards dropping him suddenly, his fingers squeezing the trigger. There’s more yelling, screaming in his ear, but all he can feel are those markings that burn. He stares at the ceiling, vision swimming, watching as the shadow in the corner grows larger.

She descends, a raging mass of dark wings and darker shadows, and is the darkness he knows and does not fear. She is glowing anger, stilling hearts with fear, all tooth and claw. She is screeching, form changing, shifting, vengeance in the shape of her. Fenris can hear Danarius’s confusion, his panicked screams as he tries to fight a demon he cannot name. Feather and dark, she fills the room with her. She tears the guards to pieces, but their screaming is dulled in his ears. All he can hear is Danarius. His confusion. His fear. His death.

“Fenris belongs to no one,” she says, her claws at his throat, tearing skin and bone, red flesh collapsing in a heap. Danarius gurgles, blood spurting from his neck, eyes wide and fingers reaching. When he finally dies, there is only the silence. Fenris feels himself being lifted, cradled in her arms. Her wings spread out over him protectively, her fingers running against his cheek. She holds him with one arm, his head against her shoulder in that crook of her neck, and her hand brushes away locks of white hair that cover his forehead.

It’s that fire again, in his bones, her fire burning out all others. His markings still, their rage quenched, their master gone. His vision is darkening as he looks at her, caught in her talons and her wings, frowning as she stitches him back together. “My hawk,” he says, and she looks at him. “I will call you Hawke.” He closes his eyes, warm in her embrace, as she rests her cheek against his head.

“A good name,” she says. “I quite like it. Sleep now, Fenris. You’ll still be free when you wake.”

He wakes in his room, not the poor rented room, but the one he had begun to call home. The feathers and pages are gone, cleaned, and all the furniture upright. He lies in the bed, and it has new sheets, a new pillow, but it smells of all things red. She sits at the desk, her head in her hands, watching him as he blinks. “You have your soul, still, in case you’re worried,” she says.

He chuckles as he sits up, a hand at his waist. His bones are stiff, skin new, and she watches as his fingers trace over the markings in his chest. “You’ve no more want,” she says. “No more need.” She rises from the desk, leaning over before him. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be keeping the name.” She’s gone in one blink, a single feather on his lap.

Fenris sleeps heavily after she leaves, feeling safe in the assurance that there are no more hunters to disturb him. No more Danarius. No more chains. When he wakes again, his bookshelves are filled with new books. None of magic. All these books are fantasy, tales of far off places, of exploration and adventure. He could go, if he wanted. Seek his own adventure. Instead he is content to buy apples in the market, sample chocolate at stores, and buy new clothing. He would find what it meant to be free on his own.

On the sixteenth day of his new life, she re-appears. She does so on his bed, falling into existence as he sits at his desk. She has her hands folded to her chest, tears in her eyes. All he can see are the six holes in her back where once proud wings stood, bare and broken bone, and the blood like black that pours down her face from her missing horns. She looks at him, her hands fisting in his sheets, raising her head and whispering, “You should have given me your soul.”

Fenris kneels before the bed, a hand on her shoulder, brushing strands of hair away from her face. She squeezes her eyes closed, turning her head into his pillow, as if ashamed. He rises, filling a basin full of water, and grabbing a cloth. He helps her sit up, although she stays hunched, her hands in her lap, downcast and weary. He sits across from her, his legs folded on the bed as well, dipping the cloth into water and wiping away the blood from her face.

He works in silence, while the only noises she makes are small hisses or groans of discomfort. He finds the base of her horns, still there, just broken, and the mutilated pieces are tender to his touch. He looks at her with a question on his face, his hands at the shoulder of her robes. She turns as she shrugs it off of her, baring her back for him. Where her wings once beat, now empty holes stand. Black blood oozes from them, more with every movement she makes. Bruises coat her ribs, bloodied strikes like whip marks rain across her skin. He cleans her back, taking care not to disturb her too greatly.

Fenris fetches bandages, which he stretches around her, packing the wounds with it. Her noises of displeasure are constant while he works, her hands fisting into his bed, baring her teeth at him. Sweat coats her forehead, hair plastered to it, the pain in her eyes clear and evident. She says no words while he ties the bandage, nor when he sighs.

“Is there more I can do? To heal what has been done to you?” he asks her quietly. He puts a hand on her back, and he cannot feel the fire. She is cool to the touch, and she buries her face in her hands. Her hair moves with her, exposing her neck, those last bits of her spine. Fenris can no longer tell that she is the demon. Like this, his chest grows tight as he looks at her, bowed and humbled. “Is this because of Danarius? Because you saved me?” Her breathing stills but she says nothing. It is answer enough.

“Then you should not have saved me,” he says simply. She whirls, turning to him, clutching her robe to her chest. She is frowning, furious, and she grabs at the front of his shirt with her free hand.

“No. I should not have saved you. I should have let you die. Let you go to your grave believing you were still chained! Watched your soul slip away. Watched as you went where I could not follow,” she says hotly, the hand leaving his shirt to point upwards. She scoffs, rising from the bed, standing in front of his bookshelf, her fingers tracing over the spines. She wears no jewelry, no rings, and there are no more horns to douse with gold. If not for her eyes, he could have mistaken her for human.

“I should thank you then, Hawke, for saving me,” he says slowly, watching as her posture stiffens. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, as if deciding what to say.

“You’re welcome,” Hawke says finally. He chuckles, dropping the bloodied cloth into the already blackened water. She huffs, pulling her robes to her even tighter, despite it missing its back – a space no longer needed. “I was weak, in not taking your soul. So they’ve cast me out,” she says, her head leaning against the books, “I’ve broken the rules.”

“Then you will stay with me,” he tells her. She barks out a short laugh at that.

“You would harbor a beaten demon in your home?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Funny little elf!” she says, but her words are quiet and she moves to stand in front of him. Her hand is on his cheek, fingertips tracing the edge of his ear. He leans into her touch, his hands on her waist, holding her tightly as he looks up at her.

“You will need new clothes,” he says as he stands. He shuffles through his things, finding a loose pair of trousers and a shirt, passing them to her. She drops her robe without thought as she reaches for them. As she stands, puzzling over the shirt, he approaches her. Her hands drop to her side as he looks at her, a burnt mark upon the middle of her chest. His fingers touch it lightly, and she winces, ripping away from him with a hurt look upon her face. She cowers, holding the shirt to her chest, eyes downcast.

“They took my heart,” she says quietly. “What is it you called me? In your book? A shadow? I am that now, truly.”

“I am sorry, Hawke. For what has been done to you… because of me.” She says nothing at that, and quietly dresses, her hand rubbing at her chest. He collects her robe from the floor. It is sticky with her blood, and cold to the touch. He drapes it over the back of his chair, this shredded and broken thing. She stands awkwardly in his clothing, which fits her ill. She rubs at her eyes with the sleeves, shifting on her feet. He crawls into the bed first, one hand under his head and the other on his chest, eyes closed. She slips in carefully after him, lying on her side, looking away from him.

Hawke huddles to herself, and if not for the slightest shaking he feels in the bed itself, he’d never have known. When he feels it, hears the heavy intake of breath, he slips an arm underneath her neck, his hand on her shoulder, the other wrapping around her waist. He buries his face into her hair as she cries. “I am an outcast. I cannot go home. I am lower than all the dust and dirt,” she tells Fenris, her hands shaking as she holds fast to his arm. Her form is slipping as she cries, the fog and shadows spilling through his fingers as she struggles to stay whole. She shifts and fades, blackness seeping over the bed, overflowing onto the floor, cracking and breaking as she writhes. He holds her all through the night.

In the morning, she sits on the edge of the bed, her feet on the floor, and turns to watch him sleep. He still has his arm under her pillow, his body formed to hers, his other hand searching for the warmth she once provided. A lock of hair slides across his forehead, and his nose crinkles at the sensation. She takes care not to rouse him when she stands. He is living. He desired to sleep in. She does not give herself the same luxury.

She tugs off his shirt, the pants he had given her, hands at the bandages around her. They slip to the floor, stained with black, and she looks over her shoulder as she stands in front of the small mirror. She struggles to see the marks on her back, but knows exactly where they should be. She still feels them – her wings – beating and shifting, feather and bone, and she touches her back with bitter fingers. She moves to the bed, her arms still around her, and stares at the sleeping Fenris.

A hand reaches out, a finger over his heart. She could take it, this soul, and restore all that she had lost. She could go home. He would belong to her. He would never know. Not until his death, when he found himself in the same dark she occupied. She withdraws her hand. It is enough to wake him, blinking once, twice in the morning light, until his eyes settle on her. She stands naked before him, and that mark on her chest charred and angry, a smoking ruin upon her skin. His hand snaps upwards, covering his eyes. “You will need proper clothes,” he tells her in the hoarseness of morning voice, “women’s clothes.” He pulls at the blankets, giving them to her.

“You mortals and your modesty,” she scoffs, even as she takes the blanket from his grasp and wraps it around herself. He peers through the crack of his fingers to ensure she is covered, before he sighs and sits up. She moves to the robes, her blackened ones, the queen cast-down, and pulls a book from its depths. She holds it in her hands, that journal of his, her fingertips drifting over the cover before she turns to him. She holds the blanket to her chest with one hand, the journal outstretched in the other.

“Are you free?” She asks, demanding an answer. “Are you living?”

“I am,” he tells her, “on both counts. Are you?” She recoils at the question, scoffing as she paces, until she sits on the floor, pouting with the blanket around her shoulders. “You are free now. What do you want to do?” She pulls the blanket tighter, the frown deep in her bones, and she can only stare at him. He chuckles. “Has no one ever asked you what you want?”

Hawke crawls forward, the blanket barely held on her shoulders, her hands on his knees as she twists and looks up at him. “I’ve only ever wanted your soul,” she says, her hands moving forward on his thighs, the blanket falling from her as she reaches ever upward. Her nose brushes against his, her lips parted as she looks at him, their foreheads pressed against each other. His white hair mixes with her black, and he laughs softly as he tucks hair behind her ear.

“That is something I will not give,” he says. She makes a noise of disgust, a pointed ugh, before she stands, the blanket pooling at her feet. The bruises have blossomed overnight, yellow and purple, dark and ugly across her ribs. They cover almost every inch of her, the thing strikes of a whip evident across her skin. He looks at her with sadness, reaching for her, but she turns from him, holding her hands to her chest. The holes on her back have begun to stitch over, demon healing faster than any mortal could.

“I want – I want – to know,” she says. She turns back to Fenris, her finger at the point between his eyebrows, pushing at his head. “You will show me, elf, this life of yours.” Perhaps she could find her own in his. He removes her hand, their fingers brushing together.

“You will need clothes then. And to actually wear them,” he says. He stands, his hands moving to her shoulders, pushing down and making her sit on the bed. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” He collects the blanket from the floor, pulling it over her once again as he sighs. He shrugs on his jacket, collecting his hat and wallet. He looks at her one last time before he leaves, a demon sitting so innocently on his bed. When he returns, she’s still in the bed.

The blanket is on the floor, again, and she’s lying on her stomach, feet kicking in the air. She has her elbows on the bed, a book on the pillow, and she’s flipping through the pages lazily. When he enters, she shifts to lie on her side. “What have you brought?” He deposits dresses and corset, shoes and undergarments, even ribbons for her hair onto the bed in front of her. Hawke picks up drawers, frilly underthings, and looks at him with a frown. The corset is next, pushing it towards him. “What is this?”

“A corset. It is to go around your waist. It is to… form,” he makes the shape of her waist in the air with his fingers and then closes his eyes, rubbing at his brow. She huffs, her hands at her waist.

“Is that why you’ll not give me your soul? You don’t like my form?” She stands before him, reaching for his hands, placing one over her breast. He struggles to escape her grip, trying to ignore the warmth under his palm. She cocks her head as she watches his reaction. “Have you never touched a woman before?” His face turns to an instant shade of red.

“ _Fenhedis_ – I have touched a woman before,” he snaps as he wrenches his hand away. She smirks, then breaks into laughter, holding her sides as she shakes with it. She complains deeply when he helps put the corset on her, tying it tightly. She picks at the undergarments, and he has to wrestle the dress on her. It is a simple thing of black, with lace collar and sleeves, a simple belt around her waist. She picks at the lace as she pouts.

Hawke sits at the chair by his desk, while Fenris is on his knees before her. He slips on the shoes, her foot resting on his knee as he ties the laces. “I like the sight of you on your knees,” she says darkly and he only gives her one raised eyebrow in return. She laughs, as he reaches for her other foot, sliding it into the shoe. Her laughter stops abruptly as she attempts to walk, scowling as she holds tight to Fenris’s arms.

“This is a trick,” she says, “to make a fool of me. I told you what I wanted and you seek to trick me! This is not a fair contract. I save your life and this is how –”

“Hawke, this is no trick,” he laughs, her fingernails digging into his arms as she glares at him, wobbling as she stands. “Have you truly never worn shoes before?”

“Barbaric mortal practices with your weak feet and torture devices,” she grumbles under her breath. He lifts her hands from him, little cuts where her fingernails dug in.

“These,” he says, running his hands over her pointed nails, “need to be cut.” She recoils and steps away, falling backwards into the chair. She huffs, then begins to put her fingers to her mouth, pulling them off with her teeth. He sighs, reaching into one of the desk drawers, pulling out clippers. He kneels before her once again, his hand outstretched. She puts hers in his with a roll of her eyes. He works quietly, careful not to pierce skin as he works his way around. As he cuts them, the black on her nails flake off, pieces that fall away.

She allows him to tie the ribbon in her hair, standing as straight as she can. He presents her with glasses, frames of gold and their glass dark, placing them on her. They hide her eyes, but still allow her to see, to observe. She observes Fenris watching her, circling her, presenting his arm to her. She takes it hesitantly, leaning on him as she finds her balance.

She winces at the noise of the street, the cacophony of voices and people. “I’m not inexperienced with your world,” she says defensively, “I’ve just never liked it.” She holds tight to him, and shies away from all others. He takes her to the quiet streets, those paths by the river, and she peers over the edge to look into the water. He takes her to a chocolate shop, and she opens her mouth for him with suspicion written in her gaze. That changes when she tastes it, her fingers on her lips as she eats, her eyes lighting up and looking at him with excitement.

He takes her to a library next, and she untangles herself from him as she walks the aisles. Her fingertips trail over every spine, picking ones at random, flipping through the pages. “Where I come from – books are not so valued. I stole what I could find. For what you needed,” she says with a stack in her arms, looking at him through dark lashes.

He takes her to apple orchards, walking through the grass, plucking an apple just for her. He presents it to her, red and shining, and she nibbles at it curiously. “Why did you stay with me so long Hawke? Even when I refused you my soul?” He asks. She stops mid-bite, swallowing quickly as she turns away. Fenris watches as she paces, stomping her feet, before finally coming to a stop before him.

“I have collected souls from all the races, across the ages. You were the first to refuse me,” she says, crossing her arms. “I wanted to know why. What was so great, so important that you denied yourself the chance for vengeance. I know how brightly it burned in you. The embers still flare. Your answer, so far, is this,” she says, handing him the half-eaten apple.

Hawke sits on the windowsill, in the nightgown he bought for her, her fingers on the glass as she watches day fade into night. They light the lamps in the street below, casting gentle light, her breath creating fog on the window. Her fingers trace in it, circles after circles, feeling an ache in her back, in her bones. He sits at the desk, candle burning low as he reads. “Lie with me,” she says, and he looks up at her, startled.

“You asked me what I wanted. I want to – put something here,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest, over that blackened mark. “Lie with me.” She stands, pulling at the strings of the nightgown at her chest, allowing it to slip off her shoulders and fall to the ground. “I know you desire me.”

“Desire and –” he shakes his head, pressing his own hand to his chest, “ _this_ are different things.”

“Don’t you love me? Why would you let me stay if you didn’t?” She looks so honestly confused, so questioning, that he can’t help but cover his face with his hands and laugh. A demon. One he knows to be bloodthirsty and ruthless. Wanting the love of a mortal. “Why are you laughing?” There’s hurt in her voice, a quiet fury at the edges, and she turns, slipping into the bed. She rolls to one side, her back to him, drawing the covers about her.

Fenris gets up from the desk, to sit on the bed, his hand on her shoulder. He draws the covers back, his knuckles tracing over every bump on her spine. When his fingers pass the scars from her missing wings, she shivers, shuddering underneath his touch. She’s hugging her arms to herself, her fingers digging into her arms as he moves slowly up and down. He leans forward, kissing her shoulder, brushing hair from her neck, planting kisses behind her ear. “Is this what you want?” She turns, her hand on his cheek.

“And you?”

“For some time,” he admits. Her hand winds into his hair, pulling him downward, devouring his lips with hers. Their kisses are hurried and needy, tongues fighting for dominance as he works at the buttons of his vest, his shirt, pulling them off quickly. He moves to stretch over her, his hand brushing over that blackened spot as he moves to her breast. He rolls a nipple between his fingers and is pleasantly surprised when he hears her moan, her lips moving from his mouth to his ear. She sucks on his earlobe, a hand at his other ear, massaging the pointed tip. He groans into her shoulder, her hands moving downwards to unbutton his trousers.

He’s quick to pull them down, leaving her embrace to throw them to the floor. He kneels on the bed before her, while she is on her elbows, face flushed and lips parted as she looks at him. “You are beautiful, Hawke,” he tells her. Her mouth snaps shut at that, turning away from him, her face reddening even more. He smiles at her reaction, moving forward, his head knocking gently against hers. “Has no one ever told you before? How beautiful you are?” He asks softly. His hand moves to her cheek, a thumb running over her cheekbones.

She inhales deeply, lips parted, red and raw, those dark eyes turning to look at him. “Only when I was strong. When I was winged. When I was whole.”

“You are free to be who you choose,” he tells her, “and who you are now is beautiful.”

“Don’t make me rethink taking your soul,” she growls, and he laughs as she draws him into another fierce kiss. She lies back, her head on the pillow, her arms wrapped around his neck. She groans when he pushes inside of her, back arching and mouth opening in a gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulder. She makes a stuttering noise when he begins to move, wrapping her legs around his waist. They rock together slowly, pressed as close as possible. She’s turning to shadow as they move, her hands drifting inside of him.

She’s slipping, parts of her disappearing, her head turned to the side as she moans, brows stitched together in a frown. He brings a hand to her face, holding tight to her, murmuring in her ear. “Stay with me,” he says, “I have you.” It becomes easier after that, Hawke holding tightly with flesh and bone, shadows trapped under her skin. His forehead presses against hers, able to feel every small gasp she takes, kissing him when she needs to. They lock eyes when she comes, his name on her breath, and he presses kisses to her temple, cheek and jaw, and to her lips when he follows after her.

They lie in the bed together, with her in his arms, and he’s playing with strands of her hair. Her hand is on his chest, chasing lyrium lines. “Is there a way to make you human?” he asks and she stiffens, and sits up, looking down at him with a frown.

“I am what I am. I will be this until I am nothing,” she says hotly. “I cannot change that.” He pulls her back down gently, kissing that middle part of her frown until it wears away into calm. She looks up at him, brushing white locks away from his forehead. “You would be happier with another mortal.”

“Other mortals are not you,” he tells her. She huffs at that, and buries her smile in his chest. She sleeps lying on her stomach, her mouth slightly open and her hands underneath the pillow. He lies on his side, a hand on her back, rubbing small circles into her skin. The base of her horns are hidden by hair, unnoticeable to all others except for him. He kisses her shoulder, and watches as her expression shifts with her dreaming.

The bed smells of her, all things red, mixing with the primal scent of sex. The candles fizzle into nothingness, plunging the space into darkness as Fenris continues to watch her. He wakes with her spooned to his chest, his arms wrapped around her. He can feel her breathing on his skin, and the small twitching movements her fingers make as she dreams. He buries his face in her hair, content to sleep a little longer.

He takes her to the gardens, a collection of all the rarest flowers from around the world. She stops to examine and smell each and every one, bending over with wonder in her eyes. “I’ve never seen such color before,” she says as she turns to him. They go home with his arms overflowing with flowers, filling their home with the color she desires. He catches her staring at them, from time to time, as if mystified they exist.

“I’ve known darkness, shadows. It is what _I_ am.” Her fingers reach out, touching a petal. “I would not want to bring your soul there,” she says, turning to him. At that, he says nothing, unsure of what to make of it.

Hawke shivers when the cold begins to roll in, shaking to her core, disgruntled and moody. “This _winter_ is unbearable,” she complains. Her complaints stop when the snow begins to fall, standing outside with her hands outstretched until her fingers turn blue. He takes her to a frozen pond, and she holds tight to his arms as they skate across the frozen water. He doubles over laughing when she slips, a shocked look on her face as she tumbles to the ground. He watches her mourn its melting, the grey that comes with early spring. He revels in her delight at seeing flowers bloom, and never tires of her endless wonder that accompanies year after year.

He spies a ring in a shop, a silver thing with a ruby, he wonders if he should buy it. Wonders if Hawke would even understand the meaning. He buys it anyway. He takes her to a grassy hill, and she holds tight to her hat as the wind threatens to blow it away. He bends down on one knee before her, one of her hands in his, and draws a small box from his vest. She watches with curiosity as he opens it, that ruby ring nestled in the center. “What are you doing?” She asks slowly, “why are you kneeling?”

He chuckles under his breath, smiling at her confusion. “I am asking you to marry me.” He holds tight to her hand, and it shakes in his grasp.

“Marry. You are giving me your soul _without_ giving me your soul,” she says cautiously.

“If you would like to think of it that way. Yes, I am giving my soul, my heart, to you, to keep safe. I am asking for yours in return,” he says. Her hand shakes and she pulls it from his grasp, fisting it at her chest as though he had burned her.

“Demons have no souls. I have no heart,” she says hotly. He stands, his hand on her cheek.

“You will have mine. Say yes, Hawke. We will travel. I’ll take you to the ocean. Show you all the wonders,” he says quietly. “Say yes. Give me your soul.” She allows her hat to blow away on the wind as she wraps her arms around him, her lips crushing into his.

“Yes,” she says, her face red. He puts the ring on her finger, and she holds it above her, looking at it with awe. She turns from him, hunching over and burying her face in her hands as it heats, Fenris laughing as he wraps an arm over her shoulders, pulling her tight to him.

She loses her shape and falls through the bed, through the floor, landing gasping in the dirt. She claws her way back, knocking on the door with shame on her face, fingernails dirtied and bloodied. He accepts her quietly, cleaning her hands and the scuffs on her face for her, and does not mention how it has been happening more often.

She stands in the orchard, her fingers brushing against the tiny things that will become apples. They walk this path often, arm in arm, but today she drifts away from him. Her shoulders hunch as she coughs into her hand. Her chest heaves with it, shaking with the effort, black blood dripping from her hand, staining her lips. She wipes it away in a panic, but she coughs more and more, falling to her knees, hands in the dirt as she’s carried along with it.

He watches her fall from a distance, lying in the grass, her body still groaning, gagging on putrid blood. “Hawke, Hawke, _Hawke_ ,” he’s panicked as he draws her into his arms, her head lolling against his chest, her hand winding into his shirt. She leaves a bloody handprint. He lifts her with ease, holding her tightly, and he breaks into a run as he races back home with her. His heart beats quickly under his skin, her hand pressed against his chest as she closes her eyes.

She wakes in their bed, Fenris on the chair beside her, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. She sits up, a cough following her movement, and he moves to sit on the bed beside her. He has one hand on her back, the other with a cloth at her mouth. She stains it with her blood, breathing heavily as he gingerly wipes the blood away from the corners of her mouth. “I will find a mage,” he says, “a healer. We can –”

“You think you mortals can heal a demon?” She asks with a warbling laugh. “They took my heart. They made me weak. The mortal realm is not for my kind. I will pass into nothing.” She draws her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, resting her cheek against them as she looks away from Fenris. He pulls her hands apart, looking at her with fury in his eyes.

“Then how do I give you your heart back?” She scoffs, trying to pull away, but he holds tight to her wrists. Comprehension dawns, and there’s panic in his voice. “Hawke, take it,” he says to her. “Take my soul.” She half recoils from him, fighting his grasp, shaking her head.

“No. You are free. You will stay free, Fenris. You will live,” she tells him.

“Hawke, my Hawke, take my soul,” he begs. She’s still shaking her head, her brows knitting together, feet pushing at the bed as she tries to escape him.

“I don’t – I don’t want it!” She yells, finally getting free, scrambling to the edge of the bed. “Don’t ask this of me. Not again,” she says quietly. She dissolves into a wreck of coughs, folding over and holding tight to herself. He moves to sit forward, her head resting in his lap. He tucks hair behind her ear, leaning his head against the wall, rubbing small circles on her back.

They sleep holding fast to each other, her breathing noisy and labored, a wheeze more than real breathing. He helps her in the middle of the night when she’s overtaken by a coughing fit, holding her steady, her hand tight in his. He asks her only once more.

“Please,” he says quietly into the night, “please.” She does not reply, her eyes closed, her hand on his chest and her head resting in the crook of his neck. Her fingers twitch at his words, her eyes opening slightly, now a duller blue. They do not glow as they once did. She moves slightly, looking up at him, her hand on his cheek. She smiles even as she stiffens, wincing as the shadows in her shift. She’s turning to stone in his arms, starting in her fingers and toes, moving towards the center.

He sits up as he cradles her, rocking back and forth, her hand reaching up to touch his bottom lip. “I’ll keep it safe,” she says. “I’ll keep your heart safe. I’d have liked to see the ocean with you.” He presses his forehead to hers as the shadow overtakes her. He holds her, in that peaceful quiet, his demon made of glass. She turns to ash, and crumbles in his arms. There are ashes on his hands, on his knees and as he bends over with a ragged cry, he holds what remains of her to his chest.

He screams and cries into that night, unable to move, unable to leave her. He finds the ring in the ash, holding it in his shaking palm. He closes his fist around it, pressing his hands heavy against his face, and the bitter tears that follow. The shape of it embeds itself into his palm, a red ring, reminding him of things redder still.

He buries her ashes with his chest of feathers, atop a hill. He makes sure that the sun will always see it. He plants an apple tree, and leaves only the brightest of flowers. He has the ring on a chain, hung around his neck, kept close to his heart. He returns to their – his – home, and finds the color has left it. The flowers die, the seasons change, and it only grows darker. He sits at his desk, and pulls the journal from the drawer. He flips through the pages, his scrawling letters, detailing all of her.

_A demon came to me today. She promised me Danarius’s death for my soul. Demons are liars, tricksters, tempters. I will not give in._

_She brought me coin, stolen no doubt. She says she can give me the riches and resources I need if I want to kill Danarius myself. The only price is my soul. I will not give in._

_The demon returned to tell me Danarius is on the move. She tells me he is in the city. She asks for my soul and tells me I will be free, that she would be my only chain. A chain I would not notice. I will not give in._

_Asmodai woke me to warn me that they have found me. They were close. They are narrowing in. I must strike at Danarius soon. She says I will die in the attempt, that my only chance is to give her my soul. I will not give in._

_Asmodai, I go to my freedom. You should find yours._

His fingers trace over the last letters, written in a hand not his own. _Fenris, I have found it with you. I am ever your Hawke._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! <3 (◕ᴗ◕✿)  
> Feel free to come chat [at my tumblr!](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


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